Choking on Sun
by cumberbatched97
Summary: Three years is far too long for Sherlock to be away from John. I should know. I live with him. And I'm going to get Sherlock to smile again, whatever the cost.
1. You forgot your gun

I rake my hair out of my eyes yet again as I rapidly scan the streets in search of Sherlock. _He forgot his gun again,_ I think in annoyance. Without John to remind him, he rushes off and leaves everything. My eyes land on a tall man, with light auburn hair, coat billowing behind, striding down the street. _Ah!_ I race down the slick pavement, batting the wind and rain out of my face, and finally catch up with him.

"Sherlock!" I gasp. "You forgot it again!" I reach out and grab his sodden sleeve. He turns and rolls his eyes.

"You should just give it to me in the flat- it's so much easier."

I let out a frustrated sigh. How does he always make things sound like _my_ fault? I dig around inside my pocket and pull the gun out. "Here."

A gloved hand reaches out and takes it from me, smoothly sliding it into the back of his trousers. It then waves at me dismissively.

"Off you go, then."

I reach up and smack him upside the head.

"What?" He glares at me while rubbing his short locks. We had to dye and straighten it so that no one would notice him. Honestly, Sherlock's shocked expression as he gazed into the mirror after I did his hair was priceless.

"You didn't say thank you. I told you that I would hit you every time you didn't say 'please' or 'thank you'", I explain patiently.

"And I agreed to this?"

"Well, you nodded, said 'okay' and told me you wanted Chinese."

"Was I, perchance, conducting an experiment?"

"…Maybe."

"So you took advantage of the fact that I wasn't listening and made me agree."

"Pretty much."

He twitches the corner of his lip- not a smile, he never smiles- at me, ruffles my already ruined hair and slips a fiver into my hand.

"Go get some tea. Meet me at Trafalgar Square in twenty." With that, he turns and walks off.

"You still didn't say thank you!" I yell at him, smile, and then turn and jog off to the nearest coffee shop.


	2. The man who changed his world

It's not bad living with Sherlock- once you get over the heads, the body parts, the experiments, the noise, the violin, the- oh, who am I kidding? I haven't met John Watson, but he must be a saint to live with Sherlock for more than a day and stay sane. But it isn't all hell. Sherlock is fiercely protective, and despite his "I'm a machine" persona, he does care for certain people. It didn't take me long to realise that this John Watson is ranking the highest in that list. He thinks that I don't notice, but he has one jumper that is really very short on him and nothing like anything that he would ever wear normally. He sits with it for literally hours, nose buried in the soft fabric with his eyes screwed tightly shut. Usually when he's like this, I back out of the sitting room quietly, head into my room and keep quiet. I wouldn't want anything to make him forget the man who changed his world.

I wander down the pavement, gripping the two cups of tea, lost in thought as I head to Trafalgar Square. I've never actually talked to John before in my life, so I can hardly testify to his feelings towards Sherlock- but, as I live with Sherlock, machine though he is, I can safely assume that he is devoted to John. I believe that he will never be quite himself until he is with him again. It's been far too long for him anyway- a lot can happen in three years. I've been checking up on John for about a year now- he had a girlfriend, Mary Morstan, whom he was in a committed relationship for two years with, but it's over now. I don't think even Sherlock realises how he acts when John is mentioned. He tries to keep a straight face, but the mask slips- even if only for a microsecond. There's a flash of something undetectable in his eyes and you just _know_. He'll never admit it though, not even to me. Ah, well. John's the person who's nearest to him, but I hope that I'm a close second.

Sherlock took me on after the Fall- I used to be homeless, once upon a time. He needed someone to check on John for him, and I don't think that he trusts Mycroft. I'm fast, and although I may not have Sherlock's powers of observation, I can stay hidden and assess John's lifestyle in about a day. Then I report back to Sherlock. This happens once every month and for Sherlock, it's like seeing a kid at Christmas. He rushes to get the information out of me, and then for the next hour he'll be arranging it all in his mind palace.

He paces around the sitting room, seeing only what's in his mind, waving his arms around and almost reaching for different things. Once, he sang a snatch of "Bohemian Rhapsody". I think that I laughed out loud, but either his perfect concentration filters everything out or he just ignored me. When he's finished, he whips out his violin and either composes something beautiful in John's honour (obviously- but he would never admit it) or, if he's in a worse mood, he'll scrape the bow across the string at random intervals, letting discordant chords screech across the flat. Usually, at that point I'll yell at him to shut up or record the song that he's playing on my phone, quietly, behind the door. There's about forty on it already- I don't know what I'll do when I run out of space. Put it on a USB, probably. If Sherlock isn't playing anything at about eleven when I (try to) sleep, I plug in my head phones and let the music carry me away.


	3. Target

I glance up, jerked out of my train of thought, by a cool voice saying, "Took you long enough." I can't help but smile, even though Sherlock isn't saying anything out of the ordinary. We've been through a lot together, him and me.

"Take care of him?"

He nods once in the affirmative, grabs a cup of tea, and rests on the wall next to me. I roll my eyes.

"Details?"

"He saw me just as I pulled on him, shouted, but I got him in the thigh just as the police arrived. I cleared out at once, and left him in the just about capable hands of Lestrade."

As he says this name, I notice that his hands tighten on the cup. One of the three targets for the gunmen. We took him out though- the assassin, I mean. It was in Vienna last year and I "accidentally" shoved him into the wall so Sherlock could get a good shot at him. The second- Mrs. Hudson's- was in Tibet, when Mycroft's men burst in a moment too late, leaving Sherlock with a few broken ribs and me with a concussion. Long story. Now only one remains- and he's here, in London. Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's closest ally and confederate. John's marksman.

The man that Sherlock caught today wasn't him, though- just one of his thugs, who will hopefully lead us straight to the headquarters after the police "accidentally" let him go, on Mycroft's orders. For someone with a "minor" position in the British Government, he sure can pull a lot of strings.

"What time?"

Sherlock glances at me sideways.

"You're not coming."

Anger flares up in me. How dare he? After all we've been through? The words burst out of my mouth. "Hell, no. Not after taking down the rest of them! I want to be there when it's finished."

I expect him to snap at me, but he just sighs and pulls that little half smile.

"Well, after everything, it would be fairly amusing if we ended up sharing the same prison."

I giggle, and drain the last of my tea.

"Back to the flat?"

Sherlock nods. "We're going to need to prepare."


	4. Brilliant

Four hours later, we're in a taxi, with Sherlock on his phone, texting madly to Mycroft about the details. I didn't need much from the flat- just my phone, and the gun that's now pressed to the small of my back. But Sherlock needed to have his hair dyed and styled back to normal, which took _ages_. I have no idea why it needed to be done now of all times, but there we go.

"So, where are we off to?"

Sherlock frowns, clearly irritated with my "useless" question. "Wherever Moran is off to. Next?"

"Where exactly is that?"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at his phone. "Apparently, Camden House." He scowls at the screen, and I have to suppress a laugh. He hates being dependent on other people.

I frown. "Isn't that…"

"Opposite 221B, yes."

"Why on earth is he going there?"

He smirks, and holds up the screen of his phone to me. I gasp in surprise.

"It's you! But you haven't been near Baker Street for ages…"

"A waxwork."

"Why would you want that? Aren't you still in hiding?... _Oh._" I gasp in realisation. "He's trying to kill you, so you're providing a perfect target. And I'm guessing he's working from Camden House? That's _brilliant_, Sherlock."

His eyes sparkle, and I realise how much of a girl he is when it comes to flattery- he just soaks it up.

"But…" His hands clench around his phone. "We're going to have to make a stop off first."

He hasn't said much, but I know. It's John. He's going to go back to John.

"Sherlock. Are you sure?"

"Positive."


	5. He doesn't know

The cab draws up to the flat that John's living in, and I jump out then cross to Sherlock's side. He's still sitting there and staring into the distance. I shake his shoulder.

"Sherlock, come on!"

He jerks his head up, and stares at me with undisguised panic in his eyes- just for a moment, though, then it flashes out. "What shall I do?"

I sigh. He really has no idea when it comes to the heart. "Go to him, Sherlock. Most likely he'll punch you, so brace yourself but don't stop him. You bloody well deserve it."

He grabs my arm like a vice. "I-I don't know what to say."

I take his hand and lead him out of the cab like a child, toss the cabbie some money and stop at the door. "Say what's in your heart."

And with that, I ring the bell.

As John opens the door, I brace myself for what's about to happen. I'm planning to stay out of the way so that they can have their reunion in peace. The door swings open, Sherlock gulps, lets go of my hand and looks into John Watson's eyes for the first time in three years.

John does the opposite of what I expect him to. He laughs.

"Here to mock me again? I thought I got over this months ago." He smiles, shakes his head and makes to close the door, but Sherlock grabs his arm.

"No, John. I'm really here." His voice catches on the last word, and he attempts to disguise it by clearing his throat.

John freezes, and then slowly lifts a shaking hand to touch Sherlock's face. When it comes into contact with his skin, he gasps and pulls his hand away like he's been burnt.

"You-you…" His eyes roll back and he falls into Sherlock's arms.

Sherlock turns and faces me. "What now?!" he hisses.

I roll my eyes. "Take him inside and lay him on the sofa, then wait."

With my help, we manage to manoeuvre him into a relatively comfortable position on the sofa. Sherlock crouches down next to the couch, and I retreat out of the living room and close the door.

Soon enough, there are sounds of John sitting up and a voice saying "Sher..."

"Yes, John?"

"You're alive."

"Yes."

"You're really alive!"

"Well, yes, John, do keep up."

I bang my head against the wall repeatedly.

More creaking. John's getting up. Then- _smack!_- the sound of a fist hitting home.

"You BASTARD!" He must have swung again- there's a thud as Sherlock falls onto the carpet.

"You- left- me for- THREE- YEARS!" John yells, accompanied by punches, until he breaks down and starts crying. There's silence for a long while.

"I'm so sorry, John." Sherlock's voice sounds muffled. Good. They're hugging. "You have no idea how many times I wanted to see you- to tell you-" He breaks off- is he crying? - And all is quiet once more. After a few more minutes, Sherlock helps John up and starts talking.

"We can go through details later but now, John, we have to act. There's a criminal that needs catching and the stake is your life. Coming?"

It takes a while, but he still responds. "Oh, God yes."


End file.
